


Eating Memories

by Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Grieving, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, John is bitter, an examination of the effect Freddie's death had on John, fandom blasphemy if that existed, inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness
Summary: There were so many contradictions, though, to make him a mystery upon too long a thought. How many times had he rewatched interviews, rewatched performances, trying to remember what was real and what was fiction?John reflects in the aftermath of Freddie's death.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 20





	Eating Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta BisexualRoger for, and I quote: "No hyperbole or exaggeration, you managed to make me cry [...] I don't just mean I welled up, I mean actual down the cheek tears". This is one of the greatest compliments as I writer I could get- you flatter me too nicely, my dear. Additional appreciation for general consultation, corrections, suggestions, and further compliments. 
> 
> To my darling readers: This is a heavy piece, mind the tags, proceed with caution. (But do enjoy)

_il me semble que je mange des souvenirs_

\- from, 'Un hémisphère dans une chevelure' by Charles Baudelaire

\---

“Turn it off!”

The memory when John hears it: the song that rose the band to notoriety. How that song was ever supposed to make sense, well any of the early ones really, is a mystery. Freddie knows, only he knows the _real_ meaning. If you ask he says, ‘Just a flight of fancy, dear. _I_ don't know what it means!’, maybe with a laugh or a touch on the shoulder relaying: _this is only a joke_ and _how silly, silly, silly was I when I was young and green!_

This is all negated by what he knows now, though. That everything Freddie created was deliberate, precise, perfected. It would be easy to be careless, to create without thought. Plenty of others did it. But perfection doesn't come from a silly idea, from something that means nothing. Perfection comes from want; from a very clear image; from a fully formed, fully felt idea. The need for perfection means something comes from the depths of the soul.

_It all meant something and if you think long enough maybe you’ll figure it out. How you want to, before you yourself die._

After all, _after everything_ , you feel as if you know nothing, that you understand nothing, that you were only a child looking out at the pretty gardens with Mummy saying, ‘Isn’t it gorgeous? They’re for you, you know.’. (Not that he said that, because you were not a child, but rather old and not handling anything well, talking about something or other. Then he did say, ‘You don’t have to talk, you know.’) A naive boy, marvelling at a miracle of nature without realising its grandeur. 

It wasn't a matter, was it, of _hiding_ himself? It didn't seem to be, looking back, looking over the two decades as if examining a painting— stepping away, seeing all; closer and seeing single points of colour. You pick through them, count those points, over and over until you’ve forgotten the picture: the fully formed man who captured an audience, who captured heart after heart, who captured death. You’ve forgotten the picture. The pain of that is inexplicable, words are hardly able to be formed. You were there, in it— how did you forget? Had to, had to. _Death, death, death_. 

Don’t remember. Not that, he wouldn't want that. Back to the question.

(Small, so small in front of you. Lips pinched in pain.)

The question, the wondering, the remembering. Don't forget! 

There were so many contradictions, though, to make him a mystery upon too long a thought. How many times had he rewatched interviews, rewatched performances, trying to remember what was real and what was fiction? It blurs, Freddie made sure of that. He wants to cling to the smoke wisp memories of the genuine, early days when Freddie dragged them to clothiers, to jewellery stores— all excitement at odds with his shy manner. The first days of recording, Freddie unused to the studio and watching, listening carefully to learn, to improve, and telling him ‘Quieter with the bass, dear.’ (They could hardly hear him then!) All of them kipping on his floor, at some time or other, and always making _him_ tea. That was certainly never something spoken about, the helplessness. Why did they think himself the baby? Ridiculous!

And then, all that with hard looks and a moustache. A strange turn. 

He didn’t know for the longest time of Freddie liking men. When he finally did realise— because Heaven forfend anyone _tell_ him or even _speak_ of it, as if he couldn't handle it— he felt like the butt of the joke. The victim of an unspoken jab. Or treated like porcelain, treated even gentler than Freddie, because he can’t hide his fragility behind some facade, behind a few good words. 

(That isn't to say he didn't try with drinks and sex. It didn't work, only made it worse.)

His voice cracks even now speaking about the past, speaking about Brian and Roger. Truthfully, they are who make everything worse. _Carrying on_. It would seem they knew Freddie more intimately than he did. Freddie trusted Roger, trusted Brian. Did he trust you? Did it come back to being careful? ‘Careful of John, dear, he doesn't have a thick skin, you know.’ He wants to be upset, but it’s true. He’ll always go to tears thinking of Freddie— he already has. 

The man seemed shrouded in veils now, far away and unreachable. Had he known anything about him? There was the mystique of his past, of his private life. Did the other two- trusted more, better friends- know of it? Roger knew _something_ about Freddie’s childhood, gotten the man to speak about it. A feat he’d never accomplished himself.

There was another mystique Freddie hardly spoke about: his love life. It came out in songs, in rows in the studio— all his trouble, all his pain. Even more so, in the end. In the afterthought. What would Freddie say? 

He already knows: ‘Look at the interesting people you’re going to meet down there.’ As if already doomed. Did he feel like that, really? 

‘Too late, my time has come.’

It echos, echos at the worst moments. It’s horrid coincidence.

What was he worried about then? Those days out at Ridge Farm? They had been nice, hadn't they? Not strained? Freddie had been happy, had been exuberant and excited. Enthusiastically telling them he wanted an opera section over drinks at some run-down country pub. 

‘Never mind conventional, look at what we’ve done so far!’ 

Was _that_ all a lie? Was Freddie putting up some grand facade to hide the pain he was writing about? He’d prefer not to believe that. If that _were_ true, what did that mean for those visibly fraught years in Munich? How bad did that make those: when Freddie wasn't putting up a facade, only waltzing in high or drunk, with red rimmed eyes? If that had gone differently, if they hadn't drifted apart, if he hadn't gone off to Bali… 

( _running away, running away, running away_ )

Would Freddie be here? Was it his fault for delaying recording, leaving Freddie flailing, waiting— a dangerous thing in the best of times for the restless man? 

Could he have stopped this? Saved Freddie from-

Fuck this— he needs a drink.

Grip tight on crystal, there that's better. Burn on the throat, slightly cold. Reassuring. 

Those last years in the studio when no one got on Freddie for downing vodka after vodka. Far be it for himself to do something of the sort— that would _surely_ start a row. Freddie _always_ got what he wanted. No, now that’s not fair. Brian’s the one, even now. That man and his big head! Always right, always right. ‘No, no John we’re carrying on. That’s what Freddie would have wanted.’ What does he know? They don't _know_ Freddie, none of them. Unless _they_ do and _he_ doesn't. More likely, more painful. He was never around past ‘75, really. Busy with the children, with the wife. And now? That’s all he has.

Knock back a drink, pour another.

Freddie, what would he say, seeing you now? A laughable picture, you are. And where were you, all those years? You could have made it up, stayed with him, been a _friend_ like Brian and Roger. How they had told him off for that, months after, through raised voices and then through silence.

That is all… that is all inconsequential _now_. Nevermind it. 

Freddie… oh, Freddie. He can almost hear him say, ‘Don’t fret, dear. It’s alright.’ That’s what he wanted him to say all those years, near the end. Freddie never did though, but then again, he never gave him the chance. It would have been a lie. Look at them now: scattered, frayed at the edges, broken apart. 

He’s left alone.

Another drink, another drink.

Damn all of them. Should call Roger, give him a piece of my mind. Tell him it’s horrible carrying on without Freddie, an insult. Yes, yes... Where’s the phone gone to?

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a different style in this one, let me know what you think. We all know I love comments, we all know that.
> 
> (This is what happens when I binge read poetry and then write, oh good l-rd!)


End file.
